


Star F. Leetman High

by DeanBean



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: 50's AU, M/M, but a 50's AU where no one is racist because its Star Trek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:44:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1521557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanBean/pseuds/DeanBean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Star Trek 50's, Greaser-like, old teenage movie AU with leather jackets, greased up hair and the triumvirate in all it's glory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star F. Leetman High

Oil squelched in the creases of his blackened hands. Jim swiped the already filthy rag from his back pocket and tried wiping some of the grit from between his fingers. Tried, being the operative word. Dirty hands meant that he was working hard. Greasy fingertips meant that he was at the garage, elbow deep in an engine block with the crackling radio crooning softly away in the background. 

Chris, the owner of “Pike’s Imported Parts and Cars” had gone home an hour and a half ago, leaving his intern hard at work on a particularly pesky Italian car that had a name too fancy to pronounce without sounding like a complete Soc. Jim knew he could figure out why the thing was burning gas so much, but first he had to clean up the inside a little bit so he could have room to work. People imported these cars because they were luxurious. Fancy. Rare. But they hardly ever knew how to take decent care of them. 

If they did, he supposed, he and Chris would be out of the job. Not that he made any money, yet. Chris was training him up until he graduated school. That was their deal. Jim stayed in school, made good grade and graduated in the top 20% of his class and he could have a job. It wasn’t a fair deal. Jim was good at school. He made top grades and paid attention in class. But Chris said that this deal kept him from wasting his good brain. At least cars were comforting. Metal and gas and nuts and bolts kept his troubles at bay. 

Breathing through his nose, Jim drank in the oddly sweet smell of oil and threatening rust. After his hands were a tad less slippery, he gave an extra hard twist to the cap he’d just replaced and straightened his back. The old clock on the other side of the shop read just a few minutes past 8. He’d missed dinner. Ma would be pissed. His stepfather, even more so. 

With a shrug, he threw the rag over his shoulder. He was already in trouble, already out. He might as well enjoy himself. Loping over to the mirror that hung behind Chris’s cluttered desk, he drew a comb from his back pocket to sweep through the front of his blonde locks, straightening any fallen pieces back into place. Sparkling blue eyes looked back at him, squinting as he tried to rub a spot of oil off his cheek. Giving up on that, he swiped his jacket from its designated hook, along with his keys. 

The rest of his clothes were always adorned with black smudges and brownish stains. There wasn’t a pair of jeans or a shirt he owned without some evidence of how he kept his spare time but he kept his jacket in good shape. It was a hand-me-down from his father. His real one. The one that had died in a plane crash in a fight against the Japanese the night that Jim was born into the world. The jacket was made from sturdy yet weathered, brown leather adorned with different military patches and symbols. The collar was old sheepskin, soft and warm against his neck. The zipper had broken several times, but his Ma always fixed it without being asked. 

She knew how important it was to him. He knew that it was just as important to her. Though this was the only way she proved it. 

He knew that she’d waited to marry after his father’s death. He was 5 at the wedding, and already scared of his new stepfather, Frank. He was a big man. Broad and loud. Even louder than when he drank. Even louder when he punctuated his words with a wallop from the belt he wore tight around his beer gut. It only ever seemed like she married him because she feared him, but Jim knew it had something to do with the money that came from his law firm too. He also saw the way Frank’s eyes softened when he was around his mother, but went right back to dark and angry when he looked at Jim. 

As soon as Jim grew up big enough to fight back, the hitting stopped. But the yelling went on and Jim just wasn’t in the mood to hear it tonight. With this on his mind, he swung his keys in a loop on his fingertip and made his way to the outside of the shop, it was the middle of fall and the air was just starting to cool down after a dry summer. He popped open the door of his old, but well maintained Cruiser and slid inside against the slightly cool air. The car’s seats were a bit torn up, covered in silver duct tape in the more open spots, and she had a bit of a rattle when you got her over 20, but other than that she was fine for toting he and his boys around town. 

Of course, it would only be him tonight. It was only a Wednesday and the boys were off doing whatever they did after school on a weeknight. Jim pulled a cigarette from the pack sitting on the padded seat between him and the passenger side. Skilfully, he placed it between his lips and used the lighter he fished from his pocket to ignite the tip. Thick, curling smoke filled his lungs before he turned over his engine and speed, peacefully into the night.

-/-/-/-/-/-

Only a few cars were left in Ando’s parking lot when Jim rolled in. The malt shop closed in just 45 minutes, but he knew he could get a hamburger and a shake out of the waitress that ran the counter if he smiled in just the right way. Pink blue and yellow neon lights blinked down on him as he exited his car and loped coolly into the small Malt-shop with gravel crunchy under his feet.

On Friday night and through the weekend, this place was full to bursting with teenagers, Jim and his boys included. They all crawled over the tables and wasted their change on the jukebox in the corner. Jim and the crew knew almost every song by heart and would belt them out as the hours went by, cigarettes hanging sloppily from their lips. He smiled, the slightly warmer air washing across his face as he stepped across the checkered floor to the metal service counter. 

The walls around him were painted a friendly, light blue with scratched and broken records glued decoratively to the wall. Signs posted around the shop displayed shake flavors, menu items, specials and metal signs displaying the names of brands well-loved by the clientele. Jim chose a stool closer to the edge of the chrome counter, a few seats away from a dark haired kid that looked to be around his age sat with his head bowed over a book. The vinyl covering of the stool creaked under his weight as he spun around slowly to lean against the shiny surface. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be at home by now, James T. Kirk?” Gwen, the gentle, older woman asked him, leaning against the counter on her fingertips. Her family used to go to the same church as Jim and his family, but then her husband, Ando passed away leaving the restaurant to her and his slew of kids. The only time Jim saw Gwen now, was when he was leaning against this counter on the weeknights he wandered in by himself. 

“On a pretty night like this?” he gave a lopsided grin. “I’d rather spend it with you.” 

She snorted. “Nothing but trouble.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid we shut the grills down, but I can rustle you up some chips and a shake if you want.” She said, turning to pick up a tumbler from the counter behind her. 

“Make it a double.” He said, taking a cigarette from his jacket pocket. The boy down the bar had taken a break from reading to look up and study the two of them. His eyes were dark and turned up in the corners. Asian. You didn’t see many of those this far north and in an area this rural. Tapping his cigarette on the counter, he struck up a conversation.

“You go to school around here?” he asked, lighting his smoke and taking a drag. The boy gave him a puzzled look and he nodded at the book splayed open in front of him. A textbook. 

“I begin classes tomorrow.” He answered after a long, studious look at Jim’s face. “My mother, father and I just moved into town.” A loose accent clipped his voice. It might not have been an accent at all, just a lack of a drawl that came with working in cornfields and fixing cars that Jim was used to. The boy was clean cut, clean lines and clean, pale skin. Jim gave a lopsided smile, pulling smoke from the end of his cigarette. 

“Well,” he exhaled. “If anyone gives you any trouble, you come to me.” The straight lined-haircut, the eagerness to learn and the way he was dressed meant one thing. Star F. Leetman High was going to tear him to shreds. The boy nodded after a moment of consideration. His dark eyes were careful, examining. Almost too curious to be human. Hungry to take in everything all at once, but quizzical at the same time. After a lapse of very nearly uncomfortable silence, Jim turned to face the rest of the shop, Gwen mixing his shake behind him. 

A few tables were occupied by people slumped over in their seats. Probably on their way back home from working on a farm or in one of the factories that kept popping up in the more urban parts of town. There wasn’t much of anything in Iowa if you didn’t know where to go, but there were always new projects popping up to bring money to the poor state. They popularized in agriculture, growing more factories to process more food to bring in more revenue. It seemed every day the Jim saw new, tired faces. 

A few other fingers held smokes between their fingers, filling the room with a mystical fog that made the whole scenario seem like it popped straight from a picture show. The hazy smoke softened the edges of the harsh, neon light and even seemed to make the music hum in the background just a little bit quieter. He took another long, lung-burning drag from his cigarette, exhaling to add to the ambience. 

Gwen placed a basket of leftover carnival style, homemade potato chips and a frosty, metal tumbler with a straw sticking out from the top on the counter and he turned to wink at her in thanks. 

“Can I get anything else for you, Spock?” she asked the boy, who had gone back to reading from his book. 

“No, thank you.” He answered, politely inclining his head towards her. 

Spock. Jim nearly lost part of his shake through his nose. Man, his first day was going to be a blast.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress... And it might be a little slow. But there will be more and I hope you guys stick around for the show!


End file.
